Dying to Tell (18 page)

"Closed?"

"Six weeks now, must be."

The Hashimotos?"

"Yeh. They run it. The family, you know, for years. Closed now. Gone."

"Gone where?"

"Hey, they don't tell me." He wrinkled his nose enough to raise the sunglasses clear of the bridge. "They just go."

The mother and the daughter?"

"Yeh. That's right. Gone. Like smoke."

Gone like smoke. And so they were. The Golden Rickshaw still had its gilded emblem hanging over the door, but the bar was unlit, its bamboo blinds drawn. Thanks to the headlights of passing cars and the glow of the nearest street-lamp, I could see something of the interior round the edges of the blinds: a bare counter beyond a jumble of stacked tables, chairs and stools, and a slew of unopened mail. They'd gone. No question about it. And those photographs of former patrons decorating the walls? They'd gone too. I could see the nails they'd hung on. But they hung no more. I'd come a third of the way round the world to find a coop the birds had long since flown without leaving so much as a stray feather behind them.

It wasn't really surprising, I admitted to myself as I trudged back to the station. They knew they were in danger. The had known, ever since Rupe made off with the Townley letter. I knew it now too. If I could track them down, so could others. In the circumstances, business as usual at the Golden Rickshaw would have been verging on the suicidal.

But where did I go from here? That was the point. Where exactly did I go? There was only one answer, of course. It was the second address written on my piece of paper.

After queuing in the rain at the exit on the other side of the station for ten minutes, I got myself a cab, waved Eurybia's address under the driver's nose until he gave me the thumbs-up, then sat back and surprised myself by falling straight to sleep.

When the driver jogged me awake, my first thought, based on the fare winking at me from the meter, was that it was the following morning. But no, it was barely twenty minutes later and we were at the foot of some alp of a skyscraper. The driver jabbered something at me that seemed to mean "We're here' and pointed at the steps leading up to the brightly lit entrance. I filled his hand with yen and clambered out.

The Chayama Building fulfilled the office needs of several dozen corporations, listed on the face of a vast gold monolith that formed a sort of way-station between the door and the distant reception desk. Eurybia was on the ninth floor. But making it to the brushed-steel lift doors meant talking my way past a security man who looked big and grim enough to be a moonlighting sumo wrestler. I had my doubts about whether I looked the part for office visits and it was also according to a huge clock on the wall behind him, with hands as long as javelins and a pendulum as big as a supertanker piston suspiciously late. I just had to hope Eurybia's staff were a dedicated bunch.

"Hi. Eurbyia Shipping?"

The sumo tori smiled with surprising warmth. "Who you seeing?"

"Not sure. It concerns .. ." I shrugged. "Well, Mr. Charles Hoare of their London office said I was to call round. Could you ask them if I could go up?"

"What your name?"

"Bradley. Lance Bradley."

"If they ask ... what about?"

"Say ..." An inspired notion came to me. "Say it's about the Pomparles Trading Company."

Tomplees?"

"Pom-par-lees."

"Pomparlees. OK."

He picked up the phone, pressed a button and had a brief conversation with somebody in Japanese. I caught my name, and Charlie Hoare's and the agonizingly enunciated Pomparlees. My name was repeated twice. Then he waited, phone cradled under his massive chin, grinning at me like this was one big game as it was, I suppose. After a minute or so, conversation resumed. But not for long.

"OK." He put the phone down. "They say you go up." He flapped a hand the size of a baseball mitt towards the lift. "Floor nine."

There was a bloke waiting for me when I exited the lift. Middle-aged, sober-tied and dark-suited, stocky going on flabby, he had slicked-back greying hair and a large,

lugubrious, flat-nosed face rather like a bulldog's, with a long diagonal crease across his forehead so prominent it could have been a scar. "Mr. Bradley?" he ventured, bowing slightly.

"Yeh. Thanks for '

"I am Toshishige Yamazawa." We shook hands. "Pleased to meet you."

"Me too, Mr. Yamazawa." I glanced along the corridor and spotted a Eurybia Shipping sign above a set of double doors at the end. It looked like I still wasn't actually on the premises and Yamazawa didn't seem to be in a tearing hurry to change that. "Shall we, er ..."

"Can I see some identification, please?"

"Passport do?"

"Surely."

I handed it over and he looked studiously at my photograph, then handed it back.

"Rupe spoke about you."

"He did?" (That was a surprise, I'd have had to admit.) "So, you, er, worked with him?"

"Yes. And now I work with Mr' he nodded towards the Eurybia doors "Penberthy."

"Right."

"Mr. Penberthy is not a happy man. He wanted me to send you away."

"How did you talk him round?"

"No need. He talks himself round if you let him. But he will soon leave us to it and then .. ." Yamazawa winked at me with so little change of expression that I thought for a moment it was some kind of muscular tic. But no. He was trying to tell me something. "Then we talk." (Ah. So that's what he was trying to tell me.)

"Mr. Penberthy is Rupe's successor?"

"Successor, yes. But not exactly a replacement." (I couldn't make up my mind whether his candour was to my advantage or not. Either way, it was the last thing I'd have expected of the nose-to-the-grindstone salary man I took him to be.) "I take you to meet him."

Yamazawa led the way to the doors, where he tapped out a code on a number-pad to gain access. Inside, we walked down a short corridor into a large, stark, grey-furnished office. A block of desks, about half of which were still occupied despite the fact that seven o'clock had come and gone, filled the centre of the room, where assorted Eurybians nursed telephones and squinted at computer screens. None of them paid me the slightest heed.

We pressed on towards a trio of larger, partitioned-off desks, behind one of which sat a thin, blue-suited European. He was leaning back in his chair, conducting a telephone conversation that his frowns and grimaces suggested wasn't pleasing him. He had fair, receding hair and dark shadows round his eyes. His skin had an unhealthy, yellowish tinge to it. All in all, I'd have said his nearest and dearest had good reason to be worried about him.

"Penberthy-san, this is our visitor," Yamazawa announced as we approached. "Mr. Bradley."

Penberthy slammed the phone down and frowned at it rather than me. "Bloody Charlie Hoare," he said. "Not in yet. Can you believe it?"

"It's only ten-fifteen in London," said Yamazawa (sounding deliberately provocative to me).

Penberthy glared at him, then turned his attention to me. "Mr. Bradley, is it?"

"Yes. I '

"We've had nothing from Charlie Hoare about a visit from you. And this is a pretty odd bloody hour to come calling."

"Mr. Bradley gave Charlie Hoare some information about the Pomparles Trading Company," said Yamazawa.

"Only the origin of the name," I explained, grinning to cover my surprise. How did he know I'd done that?

"Very considerate of you," snapped Penberthy. "God, if I ever hear the end of this bloody Pomparles business I think I'll be dreaming."

"It is a complicated affair," said Yamazawa.

"Don't I know it? Complicated enough to get me targeted by burglars in this supposedly crime-free city."

"You've been burgled?" I asked.

"Oh yes. And not just once. But He broke off and eyed me doubtfully. "Without the say-so from Hoare Who Must Be Obeyed, I'm not sure we should be discussing Eurybia business with you, Mr. Bradley."

"I'm an old friend of Rupe Alder's. I'm trying to find out what's happened to him, on behalf of his family."

"It's still no can do as far as I'm concerned."

"I would be willing to help Bradley-san as much as I can," said Yamazawa.

"Why?" asked Penberthy.

"Why not?"

"Because Charlie mightn't like you to, old man."

"In that event it would be my problem, not yours, Penberthy-san."

"Bloody right it would. I'd make sure of that."

"Of course." Yamazawa smiled. "So would I." (Penberthy looked as puzzled as I felt. What was Yamazawa up to?) "Bradley-san and I can have little talk at the Nezumi. Off the record."

"It'll be on the record if this goes pear-shaped. Your record."

"But if I learn something of importance .. ."

"You'll be in Charlie Hoare's good books. Fine. Go on. I don't care. Do what you like. It's not worth the risk for a few brownie points in my opinion, but, then' he waved one hand expansively across his desk 'when did my opinion ever count for anything around here?"

The Nezumi was a small bar a few blocks from the Chayama Building. Yamazawa seemed to be well known there, exchanging a strange Japanese version of high-fives with the barman and several of the customers. Most of them looked to be salary slaves in his own age bracket. They were drinking and smoking at a stiffish pace, inebriation a certain destination -unless asphyxiation got them first.

Yamazawa lit up and ordered a couple of beers. "Kampai," he announced, polishing off half of his in three swallows. "We drink to health and happiness for Penberthy."

"We do?"

ISQ

"A pompous hope, of course."

"Don't you mean pious?"

"Not sure." He flicked his tie back over his shoulder, out of harm's way, finished his beer and ordered another. "But I have done my duty."

'1 get the impression you won't be seeking the presidency of Penberthy's fan club."

"I couldn't afford to refuse it. But there are different kinds of duty. The office kind. And our kind."

"You mean friendship?"

"Rupe is my friend and yours, Bradley-san. He did me ... a great kindness."

"Oh yes?"

"You could say he saved my life."

"How?"

"A private matter. We leave it there. OK?"

"OK. Though, as it happens, you could say he saved my life too."

"Strange." Yamazawa peered at me through his cigarette smoke. "Rupe is more careful with his friends' lives than his own."

"You think his life's in danger?"

"For sure. Unless ... it is already over."

"Pessimistic bugger, aren't you?"

"It is in my nature. Not in Rupe's, though. He always sees a bright dawn. Which is good .. . unless you are dazzled by the brightness."

"Do you know anything about the Golden Rickshaw bar?"

"You have been there?"

"It's closed."

"I know. My fault, you could say."

"How's that?"

"I introduced Rupe to it. He used to ask me about Tokyo in the old days. Fifties and Sixties. The American bases interested him. One weekend, he got me to drive him round them Yokosuka, Zama, Atsugi, Yokota. The whole lot. A long day of gates and fences and Jeeps and helicopters. And Rupe looking .. . for something."

"What was he looking for?"

"He didn't say. But when I mentioned a bar I'd heard about in Ginza with a ... strange kind of reputation .. ."

"The Golden Rickshaw?"

"Yes. The Rickshaw."

"And the reputation?"

"My uncle used to mention it. He was a fish merchant. Quite a successful one. The American bases were good customers of his. He got to know some of the men. He talked with them. That's how he heard about the Rickshaw."

"And what did he hear?"

"Normally the officers used certain bars and clubs, the lower ranks certain other bars and clubs. They didn't mix. Except at the Rickshaw. That made it very unusual. Unique, I should think. It was a long way from the bases, of course. You wouldn't go there without a reason. Or an invitation."

"Who issued the invitations?"

"Who knows? Uncle Sato didn't, for sure. But he did supply fish to the American Embassy as well as the bases. And he heard the Rickshaw mentioned there also. Or, to be correct, he was asked about it there."

"Asked?"

"Yes. Was the Golden Rickshaw a customer of his? It seemed important, so he said. It seemed like it would make a difference to whether they went on using him. He said no, which was the truth. And they did go on using him. But it was strange, he said, being asked, and being asked at that particular time. You remember Gary Powers?"

"The American pilot shot down over Russia in a spy plane?"

"May, nineteen sixty. That is right. Powers flew his mission from Atsugi Naval Air Station. Uncle Sato was asked about the Golden Rickshaw just a few days after the news broke."

"What's the connection?"

"Who is saying there is one?"

"You are, good as."

"No, no, Bradley-san. I am just warming up Uncle Sato's stale old stories, like a loyal nephew should."

"Did Uncle Sato know the Hashimotos?"

"No. But he knew people who did. Tokyo was a smaller city then. There was nothing said against them. They were a respectable family. They still are."

"So, you took Rupe along to the Golden Rickshaw?"

"Yes. We went there."

"What was it like?"

Yamazawa shrugged. "Like a lot of other places. Quieter than most, maybe. Mayumi Hashimoto was the mama. She ran it well. Helped by her daughter. There were no Americans. That time was gone."

"But there were photographs of that time on display, weren't there?"

Yamazawa looked surprised. "How did you know about those, Bradley-san?"

"I met Kiyofumi Hashimoto, Mayumi's brother."

"Ah. He also is looking for Rupe." Yamazawa nodded. "Of course." (I wondered if I ought to tell him then that poor old Kiyo was looking no more, but some instinct held me back.) "He came to see me shortly after Rupe left Tokyo."

"Accusing him of theft?"

"Yes. And of deceiving Hashimoto's niece, Haruko. That was a surprise to me."

"Didn't you know about their engagement?"

"No. I did not. I never even knew Rupe had gone on visiting the Golden Rickshaw after that one time I took him there. He said nothing to me about any of it. He kept his resignation secret too. I only found out he was leaving when London faxed us with news of his replacement."